A Hoe Lot of Trouble (25 page)

My cat clock meowed eleven times. Eleven a.m. Riley was due to meet the Skinz leader at two. I didn't dare call Kevin to tell him about the meeting because he'd only laugh and tell me I was being paranoid. But something was going down, and I planned on being there when it did.

What was Riley buying? Guns? I shuddered at the thought.

I sat atop the kitchen counter, staring at the swinging cat tail on the clock. I had called the school, and Riley
was
in class . . . As far as they knew. I asked to talk to Michael Novak, but he couldn't be found. Something big was going on—I could feel it in my bones, even my broken pinkie. Was Kevin blind to that fact?

The doorbell rang and I abandoned my perch to answer it.

Dave Mein stood on the porch, clutching a handful of pitiful-looking carnations. He thrust them forward. "Jesus, Bo-bina. I heard about your accident."

"Glad a train wreck could spur you into action."

It was such a beautiful day, I motioned him to the porch swing.

"Not the guilt, Bo-bina. I can't take it." He clutched his heart, gave me big puppy-dog eyes.

"Sit," I said. I set the carnations down next to me.

The swing swayed and creaked as we parked ourselves. "I should have come sooner. I know I should have." He winced as he took in my face, but I tried not to take it personally. "But I was scared I'd lose my job."

"Is this about Joe's death?"

He nodded, dragging a hand down his face, over the stubble. "There's a lot of pressure to keep things quiet. Lawsuits and shit. The town is scared spitless."

"Why?"

"The day of the . . . incident, Alan Kwellen and I made the run to the farm." The swing groaned loudly under our weight. "Old Joe had been dead for some time. An hour, maybe two. Looked like hell, his color all messed up. I honestly thought it was the cancer. Mrs. Sandowski had told us all about his illness when we arrived. We thought it was just a simple transport."

Mr. Cabrera suddenly felt the need to deweedicate his front yard of clover. I gave the old man a wave.

"Understandable. Why all the hush-hush though?"

"I screwed up. Didn't take a good look around."

"Why would you, when you thought it was natural causes?"

Thick hands rested in his lap. "Old people with terminal illnesses sometimes like to wrap it up early."

"Suicide?"

He nodded. The phone rang inside the house. "You gonna get that?" he asked.

"The machine's on."

As we swung, Dave explained that if the thermos were found and proven to contain cyanide, Dave, along with the department, could be sued.

"I take full responsibility, but it's out of my hands. I've got strict orders to keep my mouth shut, Bo-bina. Or risk losing my job."

I imagined him out of work, his three kids not having enough to eat. "I won't say anything." I remembered what Bridget has said about the analysis she and Tim had done being useless. As it stood, with the thermos missing, there would be no repercussions. "It's not likely that thermos is going to turn up."

"You don't think?"

I shook my head. If Tim was behind the incidents at his family's farm, he'd have tracked that thermos down before it could have been analyzed, made sure no one could trace it back to him.

Just to be absolutely sure, I asked, "So you don't think Chanson could be involved in a cover-up?"

"Chanson? No, not at all." He pressed a noisy kiss to my cheek. "Thanks, Nina. And sorry I didn't come sooner."

"Better late than never, Dave."

I sighed, thinking about Tim and how I was going to deal with the information I'd been given. And could only come up with one answer.

Kevin.

I saw Dave off and wandered back inside.

I picked up the kitchen phone, punched in a familiar number. The blinking light on the answering machine teased me. Another hang-up?

"Freedom PD."

I asked to be put through to Kevin.

"He's not here, Nina. Out in the field."

"For how long?" The uneasy feeling that time was running out had settled low in my stomach.

"All day as far as I know."

"If he checks in, will you have him call me?"

"Will do."

Nagging questions twisted my insides. I called Bridget at

home. A busy signal buzzed my ear. I tried her office number but no one answered and her cell phone immediately clicked over to voice mail. I left a message asking her to get back to me.

I pushed the button on the answering machine. It was Chanson. "Ms. Quinn, I thought of something after you left and was just able to confirm it through my secretary. The second offer on the Sandowski land and the eminent domain paperwork had been sent to the Sandowski attorney." There was a question in his tone. "Perhaps Mrs. Sandowski does not know of them? In which case she needs to fire her lawyer and contact me as soon as possible if she's reconsidered selling. I hope the information helps."

Help? Help? No. It only served to confuse me more. Was Tim Mrs. Sandowski's attorney? If he was, wouldn't he want his mom to know about the eminent domain? Wouldn't that push her to accept a lucrative offer?

I jumped when the phone rang. I was on edge. My nerves were shot. Grabbing the phone on the second ring, I answered with a terse hello. I berated myself for forgetting to buy a phone with a Caller ID window. What was I paying the phone company an extra eight dollars a month for?

"Nina?"

It was a woman. A very upset woman. "Yes. Who's this?"

"Mrs. Sandowski—Timmy's mom?"

"What's wrong?" It was clear she was crying.

"I'm at the hospital."

"Oh no! What's happened?"

"Someone shot out my kitchen window," she said on a sob. "Didn't hit me, but the broken glass cut me up some."

I stood in stunned silence for a minute. "Are you okay?" I clunked my head against the wall.
Obviously not, Nina, if
she's in the hospital.

"I can't get hold of Timmy or Bridget," she cried. "Their home phone is busy—he's probably on the computer. I can't think of anyone else to call. Can you go there?"

I eyed the clock warily. Twenty past eleven. Plenty of time to check in on Tim and still see what Riley was up to. "I'll head there now."

"Thanks, Nina. For everything."

Humbly, I swallowed any response to that and hung up. I didn't think she'd be thanking me after my suspicions about Tim came to light.

I grabbed my backpack and headed for the door. The phone rang as I reached for the knob. I hesitated, wondering if I should answer it.

Then I saw her.

Coiled by the couch, Xena appeared to be looking at me. Staring. I swallowed. What had Riley said about toes? I looked down. My Keds were safely tied, protecting my tootsies.

I really hoped it was Pesky Pests calling to say they were on their way, but I didn't dare cross Xena's path to answer it.

The answering machine kicked on. I stood frozen in the doorway as Tam left a message.

"Nina, it's Tam. I need you to call me right away. I definitely found some odd information—even for my standards. Get back to me as soon as possible."

Xena slithered sideways. There was no way I was going back in there. I'd just have to call Tam from the car.

It took me about five minutes to realize that calling from the car was impossible. My phone had been smashed beneath the train. My leather backpack had survived the wreck relatively unscathed, but the phone would chirp no more . . .

Tam would have to wait.

The LeMans rattled as I drove like a madwoman toward the heart of downtown Cincinnati. I kept reminding myself that I had to keep an open mind about Tim. I'd found no evidence at all linking him to his father's death—or Demming's either. It was just a feeling I had. A sickening one. One I would push aside for now. Mrs. Sandowski needed me to find Tim or Bridget for her. It was the least I could do.

But I couldn't help but hope it was Bridget who answered the door when I got there, despite the fact that she's probably at work.

Taking the Vine Street exit off 75, I turned east, heading toward Bridget's house. I passed the left-hand turn for the zoo and Children's Hospital and kept going.

I pulled into the driveway in front of the old wooden garage and cut the engine. Mr. Cabrera's car shook for a minute, then quieted.

I ran as fast as my tailbone would allow up the front steps and knocked on the door of the Victorian. I crossed my arms in front of me, fighting a chill, despite the warmth in the air. I rang the bell. No answer.

After knocking for five long minutes, I walked around the back of the house, through the ankle-high grass and weeds. The patio doors were locked. I peered in the rear windows, saw the computer unmanned. No one was home.

I walked back around to the driveway, not wanting to believe what I was thinking. Tim couldn't possibly have had anything to do with what was going on. I was sure of it.

But it seemed to me I'd been sure of a lot of things lately that weren't true.

I turned to get into the LeMans when a shaft of sunlight coming out of the garage caught my eye—sunlight glinting off the rear bumper of the car inside. I'd seen it a few days ago, but hadn't thought much of it. Not until I'd almost been run off the road.

One of the garage doors was unhinged, the wood cracked. I tugged on the handle and the door lifted with a groan. It hung at an unsafe angle above my head. Dust filled the sunlit air of the stale-smelling garage. I could see a bumper and an almost flat tire partially covered by a battered tarp.

I picked my way over typical garage debris. Rakes and shovels and such.

The back of my neck felt electrically charged. I stood in front of the covered car, somehow knowing what I would find beneath the cover and yet not wanting to know for certain.

Do it
, my inner voice urged.

I was too upset to defy it, so I grabbed a corner of the tarp and pulled.

It was black. The car was black. I slumped in relief, leaning on its trunk. It was a small car with tinted windows. But it was small and black, not white.

How could I have not trusted Tim? He would never try to hurt me. Or his father—or mother for that matter. I laughed at the absurdity of it. Someone else had to be behind everything. If not Chanson, then another developer. One the police would have to flush out, because I couldn't deal with this anymore.

I checked my watch. 1:04. Riley. I needed to leave.

Rushing to replace the tarp, I pulled it over the back of the car, where I was standing, and moved to cover the front. I nearly tripped in my haste. I wanted to be out of there before Tim and Bridget came home and found me snooping in their garage. How would I ever explain this?

I tossed the other end of the tarp across the windshield.

Suddenly, I froze.

I had crossed in front of the car where I saw that the front end was smashed. The grille was dented, the headlights broken.

I let out an involuntary cry and covered my mouth.

This wasn't happening.

I pinched myself and yelped, my voice echoing through the garage. Apparently, this
was
happening.

Looking at the right side of the car, I saw that the quickie paint job hadn't covered the damage inflicted by ramming my car. The front right fender was severely dented and scraped as well, white paint showing through the thin layer of black.

I didn't bother covering up the rest of the car. Backtracking out of the garage, I pushed the door shut and ran to the LeMans.

It was Tim. The whole time, it had been Tim. What a fool I had been to think otherwise, when my instincts had known all along! I reversed out of the driveway. I needed to find Riley, and then I was going straight to the police station.

Had Tim really killed his father, shot at his mother? Killed Demming?

Oh God. Oh God. He had.

I banged my head against the back of the seat. I was so incredibly, stupidly blind.

Demming must have contacted Tim, convinced him to help get his parents to sell. Tim was Demming's partner in crime. But why kill Demming?

And Chanson's offer? And the Eminent Domain? If Chanson had sent those offers to Tim, if Tim was acting as his mother's lawyer . . . It made sense. He simply hadn't told his mother of them, hoping she'd sell before they became an issue.

But I wasn't sure. Couldn't be sure until I knew for a fact Tim was his mother's lawyer.

Eying the street, I spotted a pay phone in a Walgreen's lot and pulled in. It took some time and many quarters, but I finally got hold of Mrs. Sandowski in the ER.

I didn't have time to beat around the bush. "Is Tim your lawyer?"

"What?"

"Is Tim your lawyer?" I asked, louder.

"Actually, no. Bridget is. Do you want to talk to Timmy? He's here. I got ahold of him after I called you. I called you back but you'd already left."

I sucked in a deep breath, fighting a sudden wave of nausea. The knuckles on my hand were white from gripping the metal cord. "No."

I parked in Mr. Cabrera's driveway, tossed him the keys as he pretended to weed his garden, and ran up the steps to the house two at a time.

It was 1:45. Riley was due any minute.

The wooden porch steps creaked as I bounded up them. First things first: Call Kevin, I told myself. I had tried to get ahold of him after I spoke to Mrs. Sandowski, but he was still out in the field. It was just like him to disappear when I needed him most.

I threw open my front door and froze mid-step, nearly tumbling face forward onto the floor.

Bridget was sitting on the couch, pointing a gun at my chest.

"Bridget?" I had to ask to be sure. Her stomach was now flat, not even a love handle. The possibility of an evil twin popped into my mind. Hey, it happened in soap operas.